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GLM5 OF POLTRY 



BY 



Dora J. Carpenter Kenyon 






Auti? ■ - 

SPITS' 

MAS 3 I9tl 



SUMMER 

With sunshine and with flowers she came 

In laughing, careless glee, 
With silvery voice of rippling streams, 

And heart so glad and free. 
With sylvan songs of sweet-voiced birds, 

With breezes soft and mild, 
With fleecy clouds and skies of blue. 

She came, this wayward child. 

Her life was short. The starry flowers 

Whose cups were filled with dew. 
Whose beauty fed the humming bee 

And graced the meadow through, 
Have drooped at last their wearied heads 

In grief upon their breast. 
For summer's burial time is near — 

The flowers have gone to rest 

The birds, who cheered those sunny days 

Have flown to southern bowers. 
All this in nature's sad array 

Brings back September hours. 
The colored leaf that flutters down 

Along the pebbly way, 
Speaks in a language all its own 

The end of summer's day. 
5 



LET THE LITTLE SISTER IN 

On the Admission of North Dakota. 

Don't you hear the voices caUing 

From the meadow and the plain, 
From the prairie and the hillside 

And the fields of golden grain, 
Ringing out in pleading accents 

With a loud and deafening din, 
''We are knocking for admission, 

Won't you let Dakota in ?" 

Won't you welcome her, my sisters. 

Let her in the statehood share, 
And amid the constellation 

Let her shine a radiant star ? 
She will come with gorgeous raiment 

Decked with jewels rich and rare, 
She will bring you wealth and honor, 

Let her proudly enter there. 

Treasured deep within her bosom, 

Bears she wealth of mines untold ; 
Bright upon her brow a coronet 

Gleams of nature's purest gold. 
She has charming little lakelets 

Flashing like a thousand gems, 
Glimmering in the early sunlight, 

Sparkling in her diadem. 



She has mighty streams and rivers 

Flowing onward glad and free, 
Bearing ships upon their bosom, 

With her products toward the sea. 
In her arms she bears a burden, 

Gleaming rich with Ceres' spoils, 
Golden sheaves of wheat and plenty 

From Dakota's virgin soil. 

In her hand she brings a chaplet 

Wreathed with bright and fragrant flowers, 
Intertwined with fruits and grasses 

From Pomona's choicest bowers. 
Must we then stand ever knocking 

Patiently outside the gate, 
Pleading for the home she merits. 

Must Dakota longer wait? 



IN MEMORY OF ETHEL GRANT OF 
LAKOTA, N. D. 

Aged 1 Year, 8 Months. 

We miss thee, little Ethel, 

At morning, noon and night; 
Of all our fireside circle, 

Thou wert our joy and light. 
No more we'll hear her prattle, 

Or see her smile so fair. 
We wait in vain her coming, 

And see her vacant chair. 
But still we know that Jesus, 

Who loves His lambs to meet, 
Will care for baby Ethel, 

And guide her little feet. 
'Way up the shining pathway, 

Where angel steps have trod, 
We know our little darling 

Is safe at home with God. 




X '^* 

^ ^"^ 



SOMEBODY'S MOTHER 

Tread lightly, speak softly, no more will she hear 
The heart sobs of anguish, the sorrowful tear, 
Fold the pale hands on the cold silent breast, 
She will not heed us — our mother's at rest ! 

The arm-chair is vacant, the fireside is sad, 
No more will she greet us and make our hearts glad. 
In the way of the righteous, her pathway has run. 
Her mission is ended, her life work is done. 

Rest thee, dear mother, beneath this low mound. 
Where nature in beauty has strewn flowers around. 
While the snow-drop and lily in fragrance shall bloom, 
The tears of thy loved ones shall water the tomb. 

But still in our grief we can look up to God, 
Whose wisdom has sent us His chastening rod. 
And trust with that dear one when life's toils are o'er. 
With joy we shall meet on that glorified shore. 



11 



FATHLR 15 DEAD 

Like a ripened sheaf of golden wheat, he is cut 
down. Long years of life have been granted him; 
blessed years of toil in service for the Master, and 
service to mankind. Years of sorrow, and years of 
joy, ever thoughtful of the suffering poor, and the 
sorrows of others, doing kindly deeds on every hand. 
He is called up higher to meet the dear Master he 
loved so well, as he said: "I shall be satisfied when I 
awake in His likeness." 



12 




3 



CHRISTMAS CHIMES 

Christmas is coming, young friends look here, 
'Tis the merriest month in all the year 
When friends and neighbors gather together 
And heed not the cold or stormy weather. 
Get ready with us to enjoy the ride, 
As over the fleecy snow we glide; 
While out on the piercing air there swells, 
The merry laugh and the jingle of bells. 

Heap high the fire on the old stone hearth! 
For all our hearts are filled with mirth; 
Let no one be sad in our homes to-day, 
While merry Christmas holds its sway. 
The maid is busy with puddings and pies, 
And scores of turkeys have closed their eyes; 
While jellies and cakes and wines so bright, 
Sparkle and flash in the brilliant light. 

And while we sit by the fire so warm. 

And feel that we are safe from harm. 

We enjoy the bounty and praise the feast, 

And seem not disturbed by our thoughts in the least; 

Do we think of the poor and the hungry who're fed 

On a morsel of meat or a pittance of bread; 

Whose garments together will scarcely meet 

To protect from the cold, from the snow or the sleet? 



15 



Do we think of the hearts that are stained with sin, 
Who are starving without and tortured within ; 
Who have bartered their souls for filthy gold, 
And wandered away from their Father's fold? 

O, brothers and Christians, resolve to-day. 

That let other people do as they may. 

We will divide from our bounty and store 

With those that are needy — God's numberless poor; 

And then when the bell from the old church tower 

Shall chime in its beauty and strength and power : 

"Good will to men, and peace on earth," 

As it swings so slowly back and forth. 

If we look up to the deep blue sky. 
Where the stars in wondrous beauty lie. 
We can fancy in answer to our prayer 
We see the glorious Christ-child there; 
Looking in love from His blazoned throne. 
Where hunger and cold are never known. 
Saying in tones of pure delight, 
"Bless all who have fed my lambs to-night." 



16 



THE ORGAN-GRINDER'S 
CHRISTMAS EVE 

We've tramped all day, from dawn till dark. 

In the cold and wintry snow, 
All up and down in the city's din, 

Not caring where we go. 
Our feet are cold, our hair is wet, 

Our clothes are worn and thin. 
And the bitter wind goes sweeping by 

As we come tramping in. 

Chorus. 
O, God in Heaven pity 

And hear the orphan's cry! 
Our hands are cold and freezing 

As the blast goes wailing by. 
Here's Tom and Bess and Lillie, dear, 

And Little Jock and me, 
Of the organ-grinder's children 

That came from o'er the sea. 

We've seen the light in happy homes, 

And heard their laugh and song. 
The tear-drops trickle down our cheeks 

As we go hurrying on. 
The organ-grinder has no home. 

We don't know where we'll stay. 
But God will guard His children well, 

He'll keep us safe till day. 

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For up above the starry dome, 

Where all the angels dwell, 
The Savior has a home prepared 

For those He loves so well ; 
Though lone and poor, He'll not forget, 

To us it will be given. 
There'll be no cold or hunger there — 

We'll find a Home in Heaven. 



18 



FOURTH OF JULY POEM— 1880 

Held at O. A. Carpenter's Grove, Forest River, 

N. D., Second Year of Settlement. 
Here friends, to-day again we meet, 

As oft we've meft before, 
To celebrate this sacred day 

Our fathers did of yore. 
This day, so dear to loyal hearts, 

Wherever they may be, 
From California's golden sands, 

To Maine beside the sea. 

And for this Independence day 

We thank the gracious Giver, 
And bid you welcome, one and all. 

This day at Forest River. 
One year ago upon this spot 

A goodly number met, 
A loyal few, both brave and true, 

'Tis fresh in memory yet. 

And on this prairie, broad and fair. 

Where late the Indian roamed, 
Where dusky maidens wooed their braves, 

Or made their camp-fires burn; 
'Twas here our little flag we flung 

Unfettered to the breeze, 
"The Stars and Stripes," the first e'er seen, 

Unfurled beneath these trees. 

21 



And here we met, a little band, 

Our homage true to pay, 
To those who bought our liberty — 

To Independence Day. 
And as our anthems, loud and clear, 

Rang out in joyful song, 
The very breeze in silence hushed 

Or wafted it along. 

The grand old trees took up the strain, 

While echo seemed to say, 
"Hurrah! Hurrah! let's join the theme, 

'Tis Independence Day." 
And so all nature caught the song. 

O'er meadow, hill and lea, 
And Forest River laughing rolled 

Its waters to the sea. 

Again, together now we come, 

Where Fredom's altar stands. 
From every nation, clime and tongue, 

From many foreign lands ; 
From Old Ontario's lovely plains. 

From Norway's fir-clad hills. 
From England's broad and rich domains. 

From sunny southern vales. 

And here we hope to build our homes, 
Upon Dakota's soil, 

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And glean the rich and ripen'd grain, 

As souvenirs of toil. 
As sons of freedom we will take 

A firm, undaunted stand. 
And wield with strength the plow and pen, 

As patriots of the land. 

Our voices then in thanks we'll raise 

To God above the sky. 
Who gave us peace beneath this flag 

That proudly floats on high ; 
This flag our fathers lov'd so dear, 

Our liberty it won; 
'Twas borne amid the battles' din 

By our own Washington. 

And, later, in the bloody fray. 

When treason reared its head, 
And sought to desecrate our homes, 

And fill the land with dread. 
When brothers, girded for the fight. 

Against each other met. 
And strove to blot the Union out 

Or cause her sun to set; 

Amid the conflict, fierce and wild. 

This flag in glory waved. 
While deadly shot and shrieking shell 

Filled many a soldier's grave. 

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And as the tattered Stripes still gleamed 

In the red battles' light, 
The dying warrior clasped its folds 

And fell for God and right. 

And when, at last, the vict'ry won, 

It waved o'er Richmond's heights, 
A shout went up from loyal hearts 

In tones of wild delight. 
All hail! thou emblem of the free, 

O, let it be unfurled. 
Till Stars and Stripes shall proudly float 

In peace o'er all the world. 

And may the memory of this day 

Be always fraught with joy, 
To those who've met upon these grounds 

In pleasure's sweet employ. 
And now we hope none may regret, 

That having passed this way. 
They spent at Forest River's side 

This Independence Day. 



24 



IN MEMORY OF CYNTHIA MALCOMSON 
DREW 

Ardoch, N. D. 

Beloved, thou hast taken thy departure 

A little while before us, 

To that celestial bourne, from whence 

No traveller e'er returns. 

Thine eyes have early oped 

To heaven's rapturous beauties; 

Thine ear has caught the strains 

Or seraphs song, and the glad greeting 

Of the lov'd ones gone before. 

We see thy vacant chair — 
Thy lonely home. Here lie 

The dainty works of art, thy hands had fashioned — 
The open books that thou hast read — 
The flowers thou hast trained ; 
Who, Hke thyself, feeling the frost-king's breath. 
Dropped from the stem in life's most beauteous 
bloom, 

But still there lingers with us 

The perfume of thy kindly deeds. 

The many loving acts, which leave 

Thy mem'ry ever sacred. 

Rest, weary heart! upon thy gentle Savior's breast. 

For — "There is no sorrow, nor any sighing, 

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Nor any pain there, nor any dying." 

And on that glad morn, 

When Christ shall claim his own. 

We hope to meet thee clad in bright array 

With God's redeemed. 



26 



TAKL ML BACK TO MY SUNNY 
SOUTHERN HOME 

Take me back to my sunny southern home, 
Let me hear its gentle zephyrs softly sigh ; 

Where the nightingale is singing and the sweet magno- 
lia blooms, 
On the dear old plantation let me lie. 

Chorus. 

Take me home, take me home, to that little lowly cot, 
Let me see the darkies dancing on the green; 

Let me hear the banjo tumming, and the wild bees 
gaily humming. 
Take me back to my southern home to die. 

Take me back to my sunny southern home, 

Let me see the old brick farm-house in the lane; 

On that dear old southern homestead where the cane 
and corn will grow, 
Let me see the cotton waving once again. 

Take me back to my sunny southern home. 
Let me feel its gentle zephyrs ere I die; 

And beneath the fragrant blossoms of the old magno- 
lia tree, 
In the shelter of its branches let me lie. 

29 



AT THE FOURTH ANNUAL REUNION OF 
THE CARPENTER FAMILY, WOOD- 
HULL, N. Y., JULY 18, 1906 

While nature bright, with sweet delight, 

And earth and air and sky, 
Lend fragrant flowers and song of bird 

To charm the hours that fly; 
So we have come this hallowed day, 

From home and far-off lands. 
To the Carpenter reunion, 

A joyous, happy band. 

We bring our bevy of sweetest girls. 

Our proud and manly boys, 
To fill the hours with mirth and song, 

And share with us our joys. 
We've left our homes on this glad day. 

And laid aside all toil. 
That we may each clasp friendly hands 

On consecrated soil. 

Descendants of the Carpenter tree, 

Our father, James, the head. 
Who sleeps in yonder church-yard near, 

Among the silent dead. 
All honor to our grand old sire! 

Who strove with might and main. 
With brawny arm and sinew strong. 

Nor stopped for sun or rain. 

30 



To open up this virgin soil, 

And make the desert bloom, 
His woodman's ax rang loud and clear 

At morning, night and noon. 
And often when the winter winds 

Piled high the drifting snow, 
A deep, unearthly, moaning sound 

Rang from the woods below. 

While through the lonely hemlock trees 

Their stealthy steps were heard, 
As mother clasped the little ones 

Still closer 'round the board. 
The wolves would scent with blood-shot eyes 

The meal at evening's close, 
While father stirred the old log fire 

And showers of sparks arose. 

'Twas thus our honored grandsire lived 

And toiled in life's bright bloom. 
Aided by his brave, faithful wife. 

Now resting in the tomb. 
To their beloved sacrifice — 

The labor of their hands. 
We owe our homes, our hearth-stones proud, 

Our broad and fertile lands. 

Our stately standing cypress trees, 
Our orchards waving grand, 

31 



Were planted in those early days 
On spots where now they stand. 

But four are left of that old home, 
Where once eleven stood, 

They're Mary, Otis, Henry, James, 
With three companions good. 

Otis, at Washington, D. C, 

At Wellsville, Mary thrives, 
James in his North Dakota home, 

At Troupsburg Henry lives. 
WilHam and Willis, Thomas dear, 

Eliza, Ellen, Maria, 
Who shared the hardships of those days. 

Have passed to homes on high. 

Emily and Lib, and Miriam, too, 

Dear sisters, kind and true, 
Have travelled down that silent road 

That we must surely go. 
Of generations third and fourth, 

A goodly company stand; 
In halls of state and busy marts. 

They're scattered o'er the land. 

We hope our children will compare 

With others wise and good. 
Who hewed their homes in pioneer days 

From out the New York woods. 

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And let us live that we may meet, 
And with our loved ones stand, 

Around God's throne, with saints above, 
A grand, unbroken band. 

And to the friends who've met us here, 

In pleasures' sweet employ. 
We trust the hours you've spent with us 

Have passed without alloy. 
And as we bid a fond good-by 

To each and every one. 
We'll hasten to our Western home. 

Toward the setting sun. 



33 



IN MEMORY OF MISS ALBERTA COUTT5, 
OF PETERBOROUGH, ONT., CAN. 

And thou art gone, dear friend, 

From out our midst, 

To dwell in that mysterious realm 

From whence the voice of loved ones 

Never reach us more. 

It is like some dark, haunting dream 

To think thee dead, with pale hands 

Folded on thy pulseless, silent breast, 

And waxen eye-lids closed 

In death's cold beauty. 

It seems but yesterday that thou wert here, 

With sparkling eye, and merry laugh, 

And blooming roses on thy cheek. 

And youth's free springing footstep 

On the walk, and when with outstretched hands 

We bade thee fond good-by. 

Till we should meet again. 

But though in choral songs 

We miss thy voice and lyre, 

There clings a host of tender memories sweet, 

Or kindly words to all. 

Of courteous speech, of malice toward none, 

Of meek forgiveness for all wrongs. 

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Rest thee in peace, dear one, 
On old Ontario's lovely shores. 
Where waving grasses o'er thy tomb 
Shall sigh a soft and silent requiem, 
And spring-time showers mourn 
With sobbing tears, the loss of one 
So good and true. 

And summer birds will chant a dirge 

Of music sweet, 

And soft-eyed violets bloom 

In fragrant beauty 'round thy grave. 

Farewell, dear friend, until that morn 

When Christ shall claim His own. 

We hope to meet thee 

'Mid that bright angelic throng. 

Clad in celestial robes 

At God's right hand. 



35 



MY HOMELAND, DAKOTA 

Dedicated to North Dakota. 

Down where the Red River's flowing 

In a vine-covered cot near the shore, 
There blooms the Rose of Dakota — 

There Hves my sweet Ellenore. 
Lowly the willows are bending 

Branches now kissing the stream, 
Gaily the wild birds are singing, 

Nesting 'mid bowers of green. 

See the rich grasses now waving 

O'er the broad prairie so fair. 
Decked with the loveliest wild flowers, 

Scenting the soft summer air. 
Lily-bells nodding their blossoms, 

Dipping their cups in the stream, 
Wavelets are dancing in chorus, 

Catching the morning's bright gleam. 

Rich purple grapes in the woodland 

Gracefully swing from the trees. 
And the gold glint of the wild plum 

Calls to the wandering bees. 
Great golden grain fields are glowing, 

Stretching o'er valley and glen. 
All join in framing the jewels 

Set in our fair diadem. 

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God bless our homeland, Dakota! 

Star of the Northland so fair, 
Set like a gem in our banner, 

Floating so proudly afar. 
She will bring riches and honor, 

She will bring hearts brave and true. 
Defending the flag of our fathers, 

The glorious Red, White and Blue. 

Chorus. 

This is my homeland, Dakota, 

Dearer than ever before. 
She is the pride of the Northland — 

Here lives my sweet Ellenore. 



.37 



OUR NATION'5 HLROL5 

At the 30th National Encampment, G. A. R., 
St. Paul, Minn. 
See the ranks of veterans marching, 

Onward still they come, 
With the piercing blare of trumpets 

And the stirring drum. 
See "Old Glory" proudly waving, 

As it did of yore, 
Borne aloft by valiant freemen, 

'Mid the battles' roar. 

And the tattered flags are coming, 

Rent with shot and shell, 
Relics of victorious battles. 

Where our brave boys fell. 
Years ago, in glorious manhood, 

In youth's strength and pride. 
These, to save our nation's honor. 

Suffered, bled, and died. 

Watch them now with halting footsteps, 

Many bowed with years. 
Empty sleeves and wooden crutches, 

Bought with wounds and tears. 
Though they starved in pen and prison 

For the dear old flag, 
No deep pain or direst anguish 

Made their ardor lag. 



Honor to these noble veterans! 

Shout o'er hill and lea ! 
Let Columbia's cannons thunder 

Loud from sea to sea. 
Now our country reunited, 

Loyal hearts and true, 
Here's our hand in friendly greeting 

For the gray and blue. 



MEMORIAL DAY 

It is right and fitting that a grateful nation should 
desire to perpetuate the memory of our heroic dead 
who have given their lives in defense of their flag 
and country, whether they have fallen during the 
war of the rebellion, upon the soil of the Southland, 
in the jungles of the Philippines, or in the trenches 
at Santiago. No honor bestowed upon them can be 
too great for the sacrifice rendered, and it is due to 
their immortal deeds of valor that we enjoy to-day 
the union and prosperity of this great nation. Let 
our hearts turn with gratitude to an all-wise Provi- 
dence, who has watched over and blest this nation, 
and brought together, after many years, the brother- 
hood of the Blue and the Gray. And while on the 
30th day of May, the children and citizens of a proud 
and grateful country, from every village and hamlet 
where sleep the brave, shall strew sweet flowers upon 
their resting place, as we have no soldiers buried 
here, we have brought these beautiful flowers as a 
tribute to our fallen heroes — to the soldier, who fell 
amid the sulphurous smoke of battle, or died a prey 
to disease ; to the sailors, who gallantly stood by their 
ships, only to find a watery grave, whose only dirge 
is the lapping of the waves upon the shore; whose 
winding-sheet is the tangled vines of the seaweed. 

And let us seek to implant in the heart of every 
child the love of country, and reverence for her de- 
fenders, whose deeds shall be honored by the Amer- 
ican nation while time shall last. 

40 



CHILDREN'S DAY 

While all nature rejoices let the children sing. As 
the children on this glad day all over the land are 
gathered to sing songs of love and praise to the 
Creator, all nature joins in one grand triumphant 
chorus to laud and glorify and honor the Lord of 
Hosts. 

Every leaf that flutters in the breeze, every flower 
that opens its face to the sunshine, throws out its 
fragrance on the air, and sings in its own way a 
song of praise to the Great Creator. The little 
streams flowing from their mountain fastness, as they 
go rippling on to join the mighty ocean, murmur in 
soft cadences a tribute of praise. Then the grand 
old ocean takes up the chorus, and the great waves 
surging and foaming on the beach will chant in sub- 
limest melody. 

The little rain-drops, pattering softly on the bosom 
of mother earth, lend their gentle echo to the voices 
of nature. 

The birds in their leafy bowers may be heard on a 
summer's morning warbling forth in sweetest melody 
their early devotions. 

It is said there is a music of the spheres, that the 
"morning stars sang together, and the sons of God 
shouted for joy." Let the children sing! It is right 
and meet that their young voices should be trained to 
join in praise to their Maker, who has said: "Suffer 

41 



the children to come unto me, for of such is the 
Kingdom of Heaven." 

So while sea and air and earth and sky shall join 
with angels and archangels, let our voices arise to 
swell the chorus of adoration to Him who hath cre- 
ated and redeemed us. 



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..LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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